The Undertaker's Bride
by Opaul
Summary: AU, Eclare, Rated T for now. Set in Edwardian England, Clare is forced to marry a wealthy man she has never met who is twice her age after her father leaves her and her mother destitute. But fate is rarely so simple in the hands it deals.
1. A journey of a thousand miles

_"A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step." -Lao Tzu _

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><p>Clare always found the deepest irony in when the weather seemed to match her moods. She huffed from her seat beside the window; her eyes watched the infinite droplets of rain crash against the glass. They drifted to the desolate courtyard below. It was encrusted in brown, the lush of summer driven away by winter chills. Honestly was their no escape from the miserable coffin she was stuck in.<p>

The girl almost wished it was sunny so at least she could pretend to be happy. Then at least she could spare the looks from the maids. Or get away from their constant fusing. Clare had had enough of the pity from the last month and it was beginning to make her sick. Clare closed to her eyes and laid her head in her arms.

Her father had left her mother for a mistress leaving Clare to be married off. She knew certainly she did not want to be married. Not at this age, not to someone she didn't know, not to someone she had never met. She was terrified. Clare had never been to North York she had scarcely left London in her short life. The summers she spent as a child in the south of France with her grandmother did not compare with the moors of York. A sudden knock at her bedroom door alerted her.

Clare turned her head to her mother bustling into the room a few maids following behind. She was obviously frazzled; the rats that helped kept her hair poufy were starting to come undone. "Please my dear," she ordered to one of them, "do change out the curtains the new owners will be here tomorrow afternoon. And make sure you dust off the mantel."

There were dark circles under her eyes and she wore the same gown as yesterday. She had grown thin, and sickly pale as well, even under thick makeup it could be seen.

Clare sat up waiting for her mother to address her. To see her mother in such as state was worrisome. Her mother stopped short at the sight of her. "Goodness dear, would you try to brighten up, a car to take you to the Duke of Lockton's manor will be coming tomorrow morn, do you really want him to see you for the first time all morbid and depressed." Clare sniffled turning her head away.

"Please don't make me go Mother," she pleaded in an impossibly small voice. Her mother sighed sitting down next to her.

"What am I supposed to do, Clare? Let you starve? Let us starve?" the woman spat exasperated. She slumped against Clare's shoulder and wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. She abruptly clenched over in a fit of couching. Clare's eyes widen with fright as they always did whenever her mother hacked like that. Her mother looked exhausted beyond all recognition. The light had gone out of her eyes. "Can't I stay in London with you Mother, please, you're ill you need someone to take care of you," she pleaded again. Her mother steps forward and clasps her hands in her own. "Sweetheart, I am trying to make a life for us. I'm trying to make sure you're taken care of, who knows how long my lungs will last." she said. She clutched a handkerchief to her face pausing to cough once more. "And when I die, if you are not wed, you will be left poor destitute without anyone to care for you or the possibility of finding a good husband. Face it Clare this is my only way to make sure you end up safe and happy and cared for. Your father is gone and we cannot rely on him anymore." Clare nodded tears welling her eyes. "Don't worry, I'm sure he'll make a good husband," her mother said wrapping her arms around her daughter. "He was a friend of my father and he always stated he was a good businessman." Clare squeezed her mother's tiny midsection tightly. "Okay mum," she murmured.

Clare's mother slowly released her daughter and stood with a hand on her hip. Her eyes drifted off around Clare's room. "I'd start packing since we leave tomorrow morning, Mary will help you. In the meantime," her mother said hacking, "I'm going to go lie down."

Mary placed her hand on Clare's shoulder. Mary was an aging petite woman with glossy blonde curls she kept tide back in place in a tight bun. She smiled sorrowfully down from behind square spectacles. "Come on dear, it's time to move on," she said somberly gazing at the contents of Clare's bedroom. Mary squeezed Clare's shoulder before turning to the trunk on Clare's bed filling it with clothes.

Her fireplace in the corner, the dark cherry furniture, her blue canopy, the cream color of her walls and the rose pink of the crown molding; Clare breathed for a moment. She had lived in this bedroom since she was an infant. It was the one place she felt most a home; especially since recent times when her home had become desolate and depressing. The bustling chatter of cooks and maids had faded. Her parents no longer throwing dinner parties or have friends stop by. Clare was forced to quit charms school in her mother's effort to keep the house a little longer. Her friends no longer visited mostly kept away by mothers afraid of appearances. For a moment, Clare felt on the edge of tears again. She wiped her eyes with her palms. How could her life be crumbling like this?

"_Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,"_ sang out Mary. Clare looked up at the woman. She was smiling, folding a nightgown. Mary winked at her. _"When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen. Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?"_

"Mary, I don't really feel like this is the time for nursery rhymes."

"Hogwash," she retorted placing the gown in the trunk. "When life's in the 'sty might was well sing. Now start filling up that trunk on the floor Miss Clare," she ordered.

"_'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so,"_ Mary sang going back to folding. Clare stood up and began placing books in her trunk. _"Call up your men, dilly, dilly, set them to work. Some with a rake, dilly, dilly, some with a fork."_

Clare sighed running her hand over the leather covers. Much of her child hood was spent in those books. Her father had bought her the books. She dropped them one by one into the bottom of the dusty trunk, memoirs to be taken with her on her new life. _"Some to make hay, dilly, dilly, some to thresh corn. While you and I, dilly, dilly, keep ourselves warm."_ And now Mary was singing her nursery rhymes. It was all too much. The memories of what she had lost were all too painful. Clare pulled two toys out of a chest, just a teddy bear whose fur was worn in places and an old doll. Mary stopped singing for a moment catching sight of her. "Might I ask what you'll be needing those for?"

Clare stopped short her cheeks pinking. She cleared her throat, "Well, um, I am going to have children you know, one day, hopefully. I just thought it'd be nice to pass them on." Mary put down her folding and took Clare's hand. "If it makes you feel any better I was married at 16 too, and it wasn't so bad."

Clare looked at her skeptically. "Was he a man twice your age and who you've never met him before." Mary sighed, "Well no." She clucked her tongue turning back to the folding. "I was only trying to help." Now the woman was angry with her. Clare had known Marry since she was a child and she didn't want to spend the last few hours she had with her in an uncomfortable silence. "_Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, Lavender's blue, if you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you," _Clare sang softly. She caught the edges of Mary's mouth turn up.

An afternoon spent packing up her childhood to send her off to be married, to a man she had never met, in a place she had never been, to a life she couldn't comprehend, with an absentee father and a dying mother. "_Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, Lavender's blue, if you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you."_

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><p>Clare woke with a start; the sound of the maid shaking her awake. The room was dark, the fire in the hearth only embers. "Come on Miss it's time to wake up. You and your mother leave soon."<p>

Clare rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Today was the day she met her fate. She sighed. She carried a sickening feeling in her stomach. _This was it then._ The world was dark, not even the sun had begun to rise beyond her window. The pitter patter of rain pelted against the shingles of the roof. It would be a horrible day to travel. They'd been hoping it would clear up.

She dressed in a deep green dress and went down for breakfast. Her mother was already at the dining table eating bread and jam. There was no money for eggs or sausage anymore. "Good morning," her mother greeted her, a solemn tone in her voice. "Will you be ready to go within the hour?" Her mother crossed her fingers and rested her chin on them. Despite the full night's sleep her mother still appeared exhausted Clare noted.

"Yes mother," Clare responded taking a seat across from her. A maid set a plate of food down in front of her. Bread and strawberry preserves, Clare smiled politely at the maid that had brought it. But as soon as she leaves Clare stares forlornly at it. Darcy had loved strawberry preserves. Now Darcy was married to a man who owned a massive coffee plantation in Kenya. Rich, happy, and far away.

She didn't write. Although the post was far, so it was reasonable. That and her and their parents didn't exactly leave on pleasant terms. She had developed quite a _reputation _before she was married off.

But at least she had a very pretty wedding. Clare sighed. That was something, _right_? Two-hundred and fifty guests in the middle of summer at their family's villa in the country side. Married in the garden when the gardenias were in full bloom; now that was pretty. She wore their mother's wedding dress of beautiful Victorian lace. She wed the handsome heir to a coffee plantation in Africa, his parent we're suppliers in Mr. Edward's merchant business. All around it was a smart match; just like her's. But Darcy's arranged marriage wasn't to a man twice her age to save her and her mother from the poorhouse.

Clare breathed sharply in and buried her face in her hands. Her stomach felt sick as she choked on sobs. The thought of food making her cringe she walked away from the dining table. The very idea of wedding some old wrinkly disgusting man made her cringe. What kind of 63 year old man covets a barely sixteen-year-old woman for a wife anyway?

She burst down the hallway and coward on the window seat under the great stained glass window at the end of the hall. The sheets of rain casting dark colorful shadows all over her. Clare wrapped her arms around her legs and cried. "_Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, and the lambs play;_

_We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, out of harm's way."_

Her only gift was that she and her mother would be off the streets. Her mother would not be forced to get a factory job and work until her lungs gave out. Or be forced to whore and live in terrible sin. Clare sniffed and rubbed the tears from her face. A hand was suddenly laid on her shoulder. It was her mother already dressed in her traveling had with her umbrella hooked around her elbow. She strenuous amounts of makeup, which Clare guessed was to hide the signs of her illness. "It's time to go Clare," her mother said softly. She handed Clare her own hat and attempted to smile.

Clare couldn't bring herself to smile and tied the hat around her head somberly; her eyes never leaving the floor. She followed her mother out of the house to the sleek black automobile waiting for them in the street. Mary and some of the other maids bundled under umbrellas to wish them off. Their escort and the driver dressed in thick coats stood around awkwardly as Clare's mother thanked them for their years of service and wished them well. A buff man with curly blonde hair introduced himself as Mr. Collins; he'd been employed by the Duke of Lockton as their escort. The driver, a short burly man with a graying beard, smiled and pulled open the door for them.

A hand grabbed Clare's as she stepped into the car. It was Mary, who'd raised her from the time she was an infant as her nanny, and later her maid. She smiled sorrowfully. "Goodbye Mary," Clare choked. "I'll never forget you."

"I severely doubt that," she commented giving her hand a squeeze. "A word of advice before you go…remember child no matter how bad things get there is always a light at the end of the tunnel, even if that light is Kingdom come, you must never give up. Do you hear me now?"

Clare nodded. Clare stumbled over the words, "_I love to dance, dilly, dilly, I love to sing;_ _When I am queen, dilly, dilly, you'll be my king."_ Mary only smiled brighter and didn't reply. Clare stepped fully into the car and took deep breaths as it pulled away.

"_Who told me so, dilly, dilly, who told me so?_

_I told myself, dilly, dilly, I told me so."_


	2. Death leaves a heartache no one can heal

_Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~From a headstone in Ireland_

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><p>Clare lay awake in the dim light of early morning. Her mother occasionally coughed in her sleep across the room. Her health had deteriorated quickly; she barely had the strength to walk now. She'd been making this terrible wheezing noise in her sleep it sounded like she was drowning from the inside out. It had kept Clare up throughout the night. She could see her mother convulse in the night through the darkness. Not that sleep was something that would have come easier otherwise. Her stomach was all in knots and she felt light there was a lump in her throat. Dred coursed through her. They'd arrive at the Duke of Lockton's manor this afternoon. The wedding would take place at the end of the week. Her mother had already paid for everything. Clare's wedding dress was in a trunk in the back of the car. She hadn't had the stomach to try it on since the tailor.<p>

Her whole body ached; like she was covered in imaginary bruises. She swung her legs over the side and quietly as possible, she stepped out of bed. The air in the tiny inn they had stopped in for the night was stuffy. She walked over to the window but it wouldn't budge. Quietly she slipped on her shawl and a pair of shoes and snuck from the room. Clare slowly shifted down the hallway staying close to the wall. Her eyes remained fixated on the windows; the horizon and its gentle glow that was beginning to grow into the sky.

It was pretty, the golden color on the edge of a dark gray sky. Clare came to the top of the steep wooden staircase and looked over the banister. The parlor room was dotted with guests seated close to the giant hearth; all who seemed too enthralled in their own business to notice her slip out the back door.

The air outside was a bitter chill. It was refreshing though compared to the stuffy heat of the inn. It woke Clare right up. She breathed in big gulps of cool air her made her throat burn slightly and goose bumps stand up on her arms. She tugged her shawl tighter around her as she stepped off the cement landing and stepped into the field of overgrown grass. The trees had thinned out they were steadily moving closer and closer to the moor in the north were she would most likely spend the remainder of life. It was overcast, it might even rain later. The edges of the grass tickled her fingers as she walked along. Clare could feel a dark sorrowful feeling creeping slowly into her heart. Clare sniffled as she watched the sun rise higher and higher through watery eyes.

And most of that life she would spend alone. Honestly how much longer was a sixty-three year old man going to live? Even children were probably out of the question; not that she wanted to think about _THAT. _But Clare might consider baring it if it meant she have something to love in the years to come. She always sort of wanted to be mother too.

Clare sunk down in the grass. The wet ground soaked into her stockings. It seemed as if everything she had always wanted was slipping out of reach.

The sun had breached the sky; illuminating the golden brown grass and the miles and miles of identical rolling hills. Clare stared out at the beautiful monotony as tears streamed freely down her face. How could have this happened to her? She thought. How'd she end up her in this God-forsaken place? Clare wanted more than anything to go home, back to a time she was happy, a girl blissfully unaware of the harsh realities of life. She sniffled wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve.

Her father had promised to love her forever_._

"_I promise always be there for you Clare bear, "he said tucking her into bed kissing her forehead. "I love you." _He always checked under bed and in her wardrobe for monsters right before bed and if she ever got scared he'd be there.

"_I love you."_ He used to say that to her mother too._ Je t'aime _in French and _Ich liebe dich _in German, it made no difference, he'd said it like he meant it and then one day after twenty years he up and left her for a mistress half her mother's age in the Irish country side. Word was he'd bought her a fancy new town house near the center of London.

Now she was miles away and scared out of her ever loving mind. And it was all his doing. Though on his behalf the family he dumped was not the same family he'd promised to love and cherish forever, much had changed since then. But it didn't matter; promises were like egg shells, fragile and impossible to put back together once you broke them.

She wondered if he would have more children with her as she hugged her knees. The wind rustled the grasslands as she noiselessly cried to herself.

Mr. Collins didn't speak of the Duke of Lockton at length, but when he had it was always with a sort of gruffness. Mr. Gruver, the driver, only wiggled his curled mustache at the mention of his employer. This frightened Clare most of all. The chances of Jonathan Stanford making a good husband dwindled.

She stood up. It was time to go in; she couldn't dwell on this anymore. She grabbed the soggy edges of her night gown and trudged back toward the inn.

"It's good to see you bright and early Miss," said their escort raising a cup of coffee as she came in through the back door.

"It's good to see you too," she replied with all the warmth she could muster.

"You might wish to be hurrin' up and getting ready I do wish to leave within the hour."

"Of course I'll get right on that."

Clare's mother was still asleep in bed. Clare sighed at the sight of her sleeping form tucked up under the covers. She wasn't coughing either. Her mother seemed peaceful for the first time in days. Clare decided it was best to let her sleep awhile longer; she'd wake her up in few minutes.

Clare took out her health corset from her trunk and started tightening the strings until she had a nice pigeon breasted figure. It was slightly uncomfortable, but nothing compared to the corsets her mother had grown up with. She pulled on a powder blue dress with fancy ruffling and a long train; something usually too fancy for traveling, but she was meeting her betrothed today and she wanted to make a good impression. Clare turned around examining herself in the small mirror the inn provided. She looked presentable maybe even pretty if her face hadn't been swollen from crying.

It was almost time to go. "Mother wake up," Clare said glancing over at her mother's sleeping form. "Mother," Clare repeated nudging her.

Clare's breath caught in her throat, she wasn't breathing. "Mother," she urged again shaking her by the shoulders. Nothing. Her mother remained lifeless.

"MOTHER," Clare screamed shaking her vigorously. Hot tears flooded down her face. "MOTHER," Clare continued screaming. For a moment she lost control of herself. The next thing she knew Mr. Collins was pulling her away.

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><p>"<em>I hope mother gets better soon," Clare spoke forlornly to Mary peering over her shoulder as her mother walks out of the parlor. Mary just clucks her tongue in her way shaking her head. "What," Clare remarks sharply. <em>

"_I do not think this is the kind of sickness that one recovers from," the old woman replies not looking Clare in the eye. _

_Clare stops short, "What do you mean…she's not that bad." She'd been coughing rather often lately and seemed more tired than usual, but nothing completely out of the norm. Her mother didn't seem that sick. It was just a cold, yes a cold, she blindly convinced herself. Or the flue, pneumonia? Regardless, her mother would recover in time. _

"_I believe she's faking it to be less than it is Clare," Mary said empathetically looking up at her with twinkling blue eyes. "She doesn't wish worry to you."_

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><p>The Doctor came out of the door and closed it quietly behind him. "Well Miss Edwards," the stout little man said readjusting his spectacles. "She died from fluid in the lungs either pneumonia or tuberculosis. I'm a bit ashamed you didn't have her looked at sooner."<p>

They couldn't afford a doctor. Clare looked away and down at the handkerchief in her hands. It had a beautiful sew image of a fairy flower scene that her mother had embroidered on years ago. It sickened Clare to even look at it. She tossed it beside her in the chair and put her face in her hands. She rocked back and forth attempting not to cry.

"I've phoned the Duke and he'll be driving to pick up Miss Edwards himself; as well as a hearse to take Mistress Edwards," Mr. Collins said curtly nodding in her direction.

"You may go see her and finish packing your things if you wish," the doctor told her softly. Clare nodded and stood up. "Thank you both very much," she said as pleasantly as possibly looking them both in the eye before she closed the door.

She turned and leaned up against the wooden surface. Clare had never been in the same room as a dead body before. A breath caught in her throat and she leaned up against the door.

Her mother lay on the bed; impossibly pale and her arms crossed over her chest. Slowly Clare took baby steps over to the bed. Her legs shook violently as she walked. Tears fell from her face as she peered down at her mother.

Her mother's face was relaxed. There was no sign of the stress or illness other than the paleness and dark circles that had plagued her life the last few months.

Her mother was dead. Her mother was cold and dead and gone forever. Clare silently prayed for her soul.

Clare was alone now, more alone than she had ever felt in her whole life. The closest person she had in her whole life was now gone. In a few days' time they were going to put her in the cold hard ground and bury her and Clare would lose her forever. Clare felt as if her heart had been cut out and thrown into the Arctic Ocean. Her whole body shook and felt cold. Slowly she moved to her mother's ring finger and pulled off her wedding band. Clare threaded it through the gold chain around her neck and stuffed it in the front of her dress. She had no idea why her mother still wore it after her father left her, perhaps it was for appearance sake, but everyone already knew of their predicament. Regardless Clare wanted a memento of her mother.

Reluctantly she moved away and opened up her trunk and took off her powder blue dress and put on a simple black one. She didn't remember packing it. Mary must have when she wasn't looking. She'd worn it to Jacob, a friend of the family, mother's funeral two years before; it was a miracle it still fit. She took her mother's traveling hat, a silk wide brimmed hat with a blue ribbon, onto her own head.

A knock came from the door. "Come in," Clare stated with a sniffle.

"Miss Edwards, I brought you some tea." It was a young servant girl, she couldn't have been older than Clare by much but a wedding ring was present on her finger and her belly bulged with pregnancy. Clare stared at her as she handed her the steaming cup. "I thought it might help calm you a bit," she said shyly.

Clare smiled a little and took it. "Thank you," she murmured sipping the bitter liquid.

"And it there isn't anything else I may get you Mr. Gruver hoped you'd be ready to go soon, Master Stanford should be arriving shortly." She gave a tiny curtsy and turned to go.

"How old are you?" Clare blurted. "…If you do not mind me asking."

The maid smiled. "Fifteen," she said warmly waving as she exited the room. Clare took a shaky breath. The girl was younger than her, already married and pregnant. While the hopes of having children had dwindled the sight of her still left a hollow feeling in Clare's stomach.

Mr. Collins entered the doorway a few moments later. "Are you ready to depart Miss," he asked breaking Clare's train of thought. "Master Stanford is here Miss Edwards and is waiting out front to meet you," he said with as much cordiality as he could muster. "….Along with the hearse for your mother," he added.

Clare felt as though she might throw up. Her heart pounded relentlessly in her chest and the blood drained from her face. Slowly she nodded her whole being convulsing and followed behind Mr. Collins who picked up her large trunk.

It took all her focus not to trip on the stairs. Her breaths came in shaky bursts as she tried to steady herself. She was about to meet her fiancé, the man she was going to be married to for the remainder of her life. Or at least a good portion of it.

The parlor was quiet and colder than it had been this morning. Numerous solemn faces nodded in her direction. The fog had settled in since this morning and the cloud cover had thickened. She held up her skirt as she walked along the walk to the line of two shiny cars and a horse drawn coach with chipping black paint. Mr. Gruver, a darkly clad young man who she assumed was the undertaker, and a large elderly man stood around in a circle smoking and talking. They all looked up when they saw her approaching. The elderly man smiled widely under a white bushy curled mustache.

"Aw Clare," he said opening his arms wide. He was a fat man. And a tall man, he was just large in general. From the tip of his dark top hat to the tips of his leather shoes he was big. His girth alone was far larger than the average man could wrap his arms around. The buttons on his jacket strained and the cane he leaned seemed about to break in half. The thought of him sweating and huffing on top of her. Clare gulped.

He chuckled lightly as she stopped in front of him. "My dear, Miss Edwards, you are stunning. Even in mourning black you're a regular Gibson girl," he said cheerily spinning her around as if she was at a party and not mourning her mother's death. Clare found this very unsettling. "Nice wide hips, great for child bearing," he stated matter-of-factly looking her up and down. Clare blushed wildly in horrid embarrassment.

"I am very sorry for your loss," he said clasping her hands leaning his face close to hers. "BUT," he roared in a happy voice clapping his hands, "We must be moving on, there's much to do. We mustn't be late for the party this evening celebrating our engagement the whole town will be there to congratulate you, congratulate us." It took all of Clare's will not to stare on in horror. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the undertaker staring at him like he had lost his fucking mind with a cigarette half in half out of his mouth.

"Mr. Gruver, can you make sure all of Miss Edwards as well as her mother's things are moved into my car." He ordered, "Mr. Collins, Goldsworthy if you could move Mrs. Edwards body into her casket now, I'm going to go pay the bill to the inn keeper I'll be on in a minute Clare," he stated trudging up the drive. The four of the disappeared into the inn to finish their respective business.

Well there were certainly worse men to be marrying she thought in disgusting optimism as she tried to convince herself. But what choice did she have? She was utterly alone. Clare sat down on the hood of the car and buried he face in her hands for seemed like the millionth time that day. The world around her was perfectly still; not even the wind blew or the horses made noise.

He husband-to-be was a self-absorbed moron. And furthermore she was to be expected to a party tonight. She couldn't imagine facing all those people. Perfect strangers, having to put on a pretty face when all she wanted to do was crawl up in a corner and crumble into a million pieces. She quietly began to sob, tears sticking to the lace of her black mourning veil.

She was alerted by Mr. Gruver and Mr. Goldsworthy foot falls as they moved to place her mother's sheet covered body in the casket in the back of the hearse. It wasn't something she could bear to watch. Instead she moved around to the front of the hearse and mused herself with the horsed. They were tall grand Friesian horses with shimmering black coats. She patted there noises and they softly neighed for her. They brushed up against her and nuzzled her hands hoping to be fed.

"They're beautiful aren't they?" The undertaker spoke patting on of them on the snout. Clare jumped. "…Yes they are," she replied after a moment. He was much younger than she had thought at first glance; he couldn't have been older than she was. His dark shaggy hair hung in his face, brushed off to the side out of his deep green eyes. His top hat and old black infantry jacket was moth bitten but clean. Why exactly he had the jacket she couldn't guess.

"What are their names," she asked quietly looking away.

"The one on the right is Napoleon and the one on the left is Josephine."

She nodded gently stroking Josephine's nose. _Who the hell named their horses after French dictators? _Clare shook the ridiculous thought away. "Would you like to feed them," he asked pulling an apple out of his jacket pocket. "Sure," she mumbled. She watched him toss it up and catch it again. He bowed dramatically offering it to her as if it were some precious gemstone. She hesitantly moved her hand to take it. "You have pretty eyes," he stated nonchalantly.

Clare's mouth dropped slightly at this, but she was unable to dwell on it for a booming voice interrupted her. "Oh there you are Clare," boomed the Duke of Lockton happily. She turned her head to see him approaching her. She turned back around, but the apple and the undertaker were gone. Mr. Goldsworthy was already climbing up to the box seat behind the horses.

"Pay no mind to the Undertaker my dear, he is a very odd fellow," Master Stanford said taking her aside as he pulled open the door to the black automobile in front of the hearse. He held it open for her to slide in first.

Looking in the rear window she could see a small smile spreading across the young man's pretty lips.

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**please review!**


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